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THE DYING RAVEN.
To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees,
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelationThou who abodest with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft, From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days Shone on the earth, ’mid thaw and steam, camest forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell, To speak of comfort unto lonely manDidst say to him—though seemingly alone 'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees, Or the more silent ground—it was not death, But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair ;That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him The winter's night, and, patient of the day, And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,) Waitedst return of summer.
More thou saidst, Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man! Thou spokest of faith, (than instinct no less sure,) Of spirits near him though he saw them not: Thou badest him ope his intellectual eye, And see his solitude all populous : Thou showedst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow Of living waters.
Preacher to man's spirit! Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter! Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou, When summer birds were gone, and no form seen In the void air, who camest, living and strong, On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds. And of thy long enduring, this the close! Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms, Thus low brought down.
The year's mild, cheering dawn
THE DYING RAVEN.
In silence open their fair, painted folds —
Laid thus low by age? Or is 't
I needs must mourn for thee. For I—who have
And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade In living man.
Who scoffs these sympathies,
And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, He who doth hear the ravens cry for food, Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible, In signs mysterious, written what alone Our hearts may read.- Death bring thee rest, poor bird. HYMN OF NATURE.
BY W. 0. B. PEABODY.
God of the earth's extended plains !
The dark green fields contented lie : The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky: The tall cliff challenges the storm •
That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,